J'Adore
by fructoselollipop
Summary: Based off Talladega Nights. Jean GirardxRicky Bobby. Ricky doesn't know why he's so angry.Feedback is like sex. Always satisfying when you get some, but its awkward when it sucks. I'm not partial to flames. Please keep them to a minimum.


Ricky Bobby gritted his teeth as the side of his car scraped loudly against the wall. He merely ignored it and slammed his foot even harder against the gas pedal.

Meanwhile, all the spectators were agreeing on one thing: the Southerner hadn't driven this badly since his first race with Jean Girard. But why, they asked themselves. Ricky Bobby should be breezing through this race now that the Frenchman had quite unexpectedly retired.

The driver himself didn't know why he was so pissed off. He was just angry. Every little thing seemed like a threat, every indirect comment was a personal attack. Subconsciously he could feel that whatever plagued him there was something much deeper than just a bad day.

A sharp jolt from the driver's side of the car brought Ricky out of his thoughts and back into the race. He glanced to his left and met the eyes of Brian Wavecrest, who seemed to be determined to wreck Ricky.

The Southerner's anger flared up even more than before. He jerked his steering wheel to the left in retaliation to the bump, ramming hard into his old Wonderbread car. Which, of course, turned out to be a terrible idea.

As the vehicles collided, Ricky could feel his control on the wheel slip. He tried desperately to steer the car in the right direction again, but they were simply moving too fast and hat hit with too much force.

He spun wildly, feeling the car connect with Wavecrest, the wall, and Wavecrest again before screeching to a stop. As the smoke settled, he had just enough time to realize that the nose of the car still pointed forwards before he mashed his foot down on the pedal and, somewhat to his surprise, shot forward. As he picked up speed, Ricky could just barely see the Wonderbread car off to the left, upside down and not at all driveable.

"Asshole," he said irritably as he crossed the finish line.

"Nice job, pal." Cal slapped his friend on the back, grinning. "When you rammed him I thought yall were done for sure."

Ricky only grunted in response. He couldn't explain why, but it didn't really feel like a victory. It was too easy, too simple to be real. There was no challenge to it. After something like that the drunken antics that normally took place after a win just didn't feel right.

He sighed deeply and backed away from his partying friends, heading towards the parking lot.  
He just wanted to go home, take a shower, and bid this day fucking adieu. It is safe to say that he didn't even notice Susan sidling up next to him and squeezing his butt playfully.

The Southerner jumped at the touch, his temper already rising with his unsuspecting girlfriend. "Yes, Susan?" He asked, a harsh tone to his voice. That should have been enough for Susan to get the hint, but apparently it wasn't.

"I was just hoping that I could come over to your place tonight," Susan said, with a mischievous grin. "I know of a way we can celebrate your win."

Ricky dragged a hand through his hair, fighting to not raise his voice. She didn't do anything, really. "Susan," he said as calmly as he could. "Leave me a-fucking-lone." He turned his back on her and continued walking towards his car, not giving a second thought to the fact that he probably hurt her feelings.

When he reached his car, he threw himself in the front seat roughly but did not start the engine for several minutes. What was wrong with him today? He was touchy and angry and it felt as though a part of him was missing, but for the life of him he could not think of what it could possibly be. He folded his arms over the steering wheel and laid his head on them,  
trying to force himself to feel better. Needless to say, that didn't work very well.

For a while he just drove. His home wasn't very far from the track, but every time he found that he was following the familiar route he immediately changed direction. A couple people that recognized his car honked and wave, but he simply nodded in their direction. He was too lost in thought to even ignore them like he normally would have done in such an terrible state.

Okay, think Ricky. He told himself. What the fuck is wrong? He tried hard and finally he was able to trace his angry mood back to Cal's look of surprise earlier that day when he asked why Jean's car wasn't in the garage.

"Didn't you hear?" Cal had raised his eyebrows in amazement. "Girard turned in his resignation right after Talladega. Said something about how since he was no longer the best there was no point in racing anymore." He frowned at Ricky. "I'm surprised you didn't know."

Ricky had stayed quiet while his friend spoke, the memory of the conversation he and Jean shared at the Frenchman's home flooded his memory. He had quite forgotten about Jean's promise to quit racing once he was beaten. That's exactly why he worked so hard to win Talladega. To get that damn Girard out of his hair.

He hadn't expected his rival to actually leave. But he did. He was gone.

After what must have been over an hour, Ricky suddenly became aware that he was no longer driving. In fact he had already turned off the car and taken the key out of the ignition.

But he wasn't at his house.

He focused his eyes, trying to get his bearings. He was on a street that he had only ever been on once before, in front of a house he had only ever been to once before.

Without sparing another thought, the Southerner got out of his car and walked up the driveway to the front door, almost as though he had a purpose. Ignoring the fact that it was well past midnight he approached the door and leaned on the doorbell, not releasing it until he was satisfied the resident of the house could not avoid it. He wanted several minutes until he got what he wanted.

A very sleepy Jean Girard answered the door, rubbing an eye with the heel of his hand and yawning very widely. "Ricky Bobby?" He said, trying - and failing - to suppress the confusion in his voice. "To what do I owe this very late surprise?"

Ricky's heart pounded as his eyes slid over the Frenchman in front of him. Jean was wearing only a pair of pajama bottoms, that hung loosely over his waist and no shirt at all. His lean frame wasn't impressive by any definition of the word, but it seemed so uniquely right.  
His olive skin was perfect, unblemished and smooth. For some reason, Ricky wanted to touch it. He opened his mouth automatically to speak. "Race me."

Jean's eyebrows lifted just barely in confusion, but he did not question the request. "When?"

"Now." Ricky paused then, remembering the hour and amended it to, "Soon. Tomorrow."

The Frenchman scratched his face, studying his formal rival with sleepy yet piercing eyes. "What time?" He asked quietly.

"Whenever. Noon. At the track."

Jean let the quiet linger for a few moments, his eyes boring into Ricky's, as though trying to pry the answer from his brain. "Until tomorrow then."

Ricky turned and began to head back to his car when Jean's voice caused him to turn.

"I don't suppose you are going to let me in on the secret of this very bizarre visit?"

The Southerner let his eyes feast on Jean's lanky body again and he swallowed hard. "If I knew, I'd tell you."

Ricky drew several deep breaths in an attempt to slow his heart rate. He had been at the track since seven that morning, running a few test laps in one of the rental cars that he and Jean were allowed to use for their race. It had taken some convincing to be able to use the cars, and even more to persuade the owner of the track to not tell anyone. "If I see one person watching, its off," he had threatened. "I'll use a different track." So far, the owner had kept his word.

"Bonjour, Monsieur Bobby."

The Southerner whipped around at the sound of the voice, relieved to see that Jean didn't have any friends or husbands in tow. "Mornin'," he replied thickly. He remained silent a moment, all words lost to him, as he drank in the sight of his rival. The image of him standing there was - for some strange reason - intoxicating. Ricky could hear his heart pounding in his ears. "Um," he said after some time. "Ten laps. Both from the pole. We're not using our own cars so we can't wreck each other again." He paused her for significance,  
but Jean did not respond. "Do you wanna run some test laps?"

Jean shook his head. "I'm sure the cars drive the same."

Ricky frowned. "That's awfully trusting of you."

"Do I have a reason to act otherwise?" Jean raised an eyebrow. "You would not sabotage me on purpose, would you?"

An uncomfortable silence fell between them, each probing the other's eyes with his own.  
"Let's just start this thing," Ricky said softly.

If anyone had been there to witness it, they would have said it was simply amazing. Although it was very short, it was groundbreaking. Ricky and Jean managed to match each other's skill perfectly, neither one able to gain the slightest lead over the other. Finally in the last lap Jean was able to coax a little more speed out of his car and pulled ahead by a full three seconds. It had been close, but even Ricky knew that he had once again been beaten.

Once their cars had come to a stop, Ricky crawled out of his car, ripping his helmet off and stomping towards the other vehicle, obviously very angry. Once he reached it, he ripped the window guard off and pulled Jean out with ease. He pushed the Frenchman roughly against the side of the car, ripping his helmet off hatefully.

Jean's eyes looked up into his, empty of emotion, his face expressionless.

Ricky seethed quietly for a minute, staring into Jean's blank eyes, thoughts and feelings he didn't even know he harbored coursing through him. Before he realized what he was doing, his lips were on the other man's, kissing him almost furiously.

The Frenchman winced slightly under the forcefulness of the kiss, but Ricky ignored him, his tongue tracing over unfamiliar lips, begging entry. He should have been hardly surprised when he was granted it. He pushed the kiss deeper, afraid to let it go, afraid it may never come again. He pressed the length of his body against Jean's, using the car for support,  
just barely hearing the other man's whimper beneath him as they clutched each other desperately. Ricky started to see stars.

They finally broke apart, Jean tossing his head back, his chest heaving as he nearly gasped for air. Ricky trailed his lips down the Frenchman's chin to his neck, finding a spot he liked and nibbling on it, not as gently as Jean would have liked. Soon the patch of skin was thoroughly bruised and Ricky sucked on it, rather pleased with himself.

For a moment neither of them dared to move, leaning against the side of the vehicle, Ricky's face buried in the crook of Jean's neck, both breathing heavily.

Slowly Ricky could feel the Frenchman's arms wind around him, one hand raking through his unruly blond hair.

"Why did you do that?" Came the heavily accented voice finally.

The Southerner pulled himself to a standing position, one of Jean's arms still draped around his waist. He studied the other man a moment. "You left me," he murmured simply,pushing a lock of curly hair away from the Frenchman's questioning eyes.

Jean frowned. "I thought that was what you wanted."

Ricky smiled. "You shouldn't have left me."

More confusion. "Why is that?"

"Because now I'm in love with you." Ricky leaned forward and pressed another kiss into the other man's lips. "I always fall for the ones who leave me." 


End file.
